4000 Miles
by QuirkyKino
Summary: Germany is determined that America doesn't like him. Belgium knows better. A Germerica one-shot, rated T for strong language.


**A/N:** This is the first fanfic I've published online for several years. It's silly, but I laughed a lot while writing it and I hope you like it too. Constructive criticism is welcome, and please let me know if you see any grammar, formatting or spelling mistakes! Thanks for reading and enjoy!

 _European Parliament, Brussels, Belgium_

Germany doesn't make a habit of watching the clock. At least, he tries not to, but some days are more difficult than others. This particular icy January morning would try the patience of a saint.

The clock in his office is directly above the door, opposite his desk. He ignores it wilfully most of the time, but today has been so slow that he can't help but count the seconds until lunch arrives. He needs to eat and play some inane game on his iPhone and just _breathe_.

He sends a final email, cracks his knuckles, rolls his shoulders back and forth, and sighs. He's looking forward to going home - not that he doesn't like Belgium or that the time he spends here isn't valuable - but his apartment in Brussels just isn't the same. He misses all the ridiculous things that make home _home_ , like picking dog hair off the sofa and arguing with Prussia and tuning a piano he never plays. All in all, his bout of homesickness isn't improving his day.

At precisely 12 o'clock, Germany closes the laptop and gets up, neatly tucking his (ergonomic) swivel chair under the desk. He might treat himself to the chocolate biscuits he's concealed in his filing cabinet later. He hasn't decided yet.

It's when he's almost at the door that he realises his day is about to get, unbelievably, even worse.

"Germany, have you got five minutes?" Belgium asks, although it's less of a request and more of a demand. She bursts through the door like an efficient blonde hurricane, a typhoon of severe skirt suits and improbable heels.  
"I was about to go for lunch," he protests half-heartedly.  
"Oh, you can tuck into those biscuits you've been hiding any day!" Belgium scoffs. He's too baffled to defend himself; he can only shrug. He sits back down at his desk, indicating for her to sit.  
"I'm not even going to ask how you know about that."  
"Good, because I won't be telling you," she insists, "Anyway, this is all beside the point. America's here and he wants to see you."  
"Fucking hell. What does he want?"  
"I don't know. He turned up at reception asking for you."  
"Tell him I'm not here. Say that I'm ill, or that there was a family emergency and I went back to Berlin. Tell him I was abducted by aliens if you must!"  
"Abducted by aliens?!" Belgium sniggers.  
"You know him, he absolutely would believe that shit."  
"I'm not going to lie for you. Don't you think it's sweet that he flew all the way here just to talk to you?"  
"No! I know exactly why he's here! He wants to talk about what happened at that stupid Christmas party he insists on hosting every year." Head in his hands, Germany sighs deeply. Her cousin does a lot of sighing, Belgium reflects.  
"Ohhh, I see. You don't want to have the talk of shame."  
"What?"  
"You know - the "it was a party and we had a bit of fun, where do we go from here" talk." Germany groans in disgust.  
"I refuse to talk to him."  
"You'll have to talk to him at some point. You can't ignore him forever; you'll cause a diplomatic incident."  
"I'll talk to him about anything except this. Literally anything."  
"Darling, you owe him," Belgium says firmly. The look Germany gives her is so outraged that she almost - _almost_ \- flinches.  
"I don't owe him anything," he snaps.  
"He's obviously worried about it. Maybe he likes you."  
"Or maybe he doesn't like me and wants to know my feelings about him, so he can let me down gently like the nice bastard he is-"  
"Is that what you're worried about? That he's come here to gloat?"  
"I don't know," Germany mutters, "Probably." He opens the top drawer of the filing cabinet and flicks past all his folders to retrieve the packet of biscuits.  
"Talk to him," she persists, "For me." She stands up, putting a hand on his arm gently. Germany looks at her beautifully-manicured hand, at her concerned expression, at her kind eyes.  
"Fine," he agrees begrudgingly, "But I'm having a fucking biscuit first."

"Do I look alright?" Germany pleads. He can see America looking at a painting on the wall of the lobby, feigning interest.  
"You look fine! Stop fussing, he's not going to care."  
"What do I say?" He instinctively reaches to adjust his tie again, but Belgium slaps his hand away.  
"Start with "hello". Ask how he is, how the Obamas are doing. Just behave like a person, sweetie."  
"Easier said than done."  
"Go on." She shoves him unceremoniously into the open. He starts counting upwards from one as he walks over, settling his nerves with logic and rhythm.  
"Hi," he says. It's too abrupt and too hostile, and there's a horrid sinking feeling in his stomach.  
"Hey!" America responds, beaming like Germany is the most glorious thing he's ever seen. It does not put him at ease.  
"Belgium said you wanted to talk to me."  
"I did. I mean, I do! Like, now, if you're not busy?"  
"Well, I was about to get some lunch. You're welcome to come along if you haven't eaten. Or even if you have eaten, although it might be awkward to watch me eat. Or it might not be awkward. I don't know how you feel about that." Germany pauses for breath, painfully aware of his own anxious verbal diarrhoea. America just smiles again.  
"I'd like that. Going for lunch, that is."  
"Good. Yeah, I'd like that too. Shall we-?" He gestures at the revolving door at the front of the building. As they're walking, he glances over his shoulder. Belgium is standing near the front desk, grinning, hands on her hips. Her work here is apparently done.

Twenty minutes later, they're sat on the edge of a fountain, under the weak sunshine filtering through a dense layer of clouds. Germany is picking at a chicken salad, but he can't find it in himself to enjoy it. He decides to get this whole fiasco over with, once and for all.  
"What did you want to talk to me about? Belgium made it sound like it was an urgent crisis."  
"Did she? I guess it was kinda random for me to just rock up in Brussels and beg to see you."  
"Beg?" He can't lie; he does smile a little at that.  
"Well, maybe not "beg". I didn't _beg_ to see you. Not really," America hastily corrects, blushing.  
"Obviously not."  
"But, like, anyways - I wanted to talk about what happened at the party. Y'know." The dread Germany is feeling must show on his face, because America reaches out to pat him on the shoulder.  
"I'm getting vibes that you maybe don't want to talk about it, bro?"  
"Your psychic powers are improving," Germany says.  
"I don't need to be psychic. Look, man, it's awkward. I get that. But I don't want us to never ever talk again. I don't want to hurt you-"  
"I knew this would happen!" Germany blurts out, "I told Belgium, I said it would!"  
"What?"  
"I said you'd come to tell me that you don't have any feelings for me and that it was a stupid mistake and also probably that I was a bad kisser!"  
" _What_?" America repeats incredulously, "Germany, I didn't come to say _any_ of that."  
"Oh, right, sure. Of course you didn't! How fucking stupid do you think I am?!"  
"Really freakin' stupid if you think I travelled 4000 miles to tell you I didn't like you!"  
"Oh. Oh." Germany sets his box of salad aside and puts his head in his hands for the second time in less than an hour. His shoulders tremble slightly and America thinks he might be starting to sob. Then he realises Germany is _laughing_. Very quietly, almost shyly, but he's laughing all the same.  
"Y'know, for someone with a doctorate, you're kinda dumb."  
"I am _extremely_ dumb. Also insecure. Very insecure, apparently." Germany lifts his head and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.  
"You don't need to be."

The shocked noise that comes out of Germany's mouth is embarrassing enough, but to squeak like that in the middle of a kiss is utterly _mortifying_. Of the two kisses they've shared, this one is infinitely better.

In fact, it's so good that Germany forgets that he is perched on the stone edge of a fountain. Fists tight on America's shirt-front, he forgets all about their precarious position and pulls America almost on top of him… and into the fountain. They scramble around in the water for a few heart-pounding moments, shrieking like children. Eventually, Germany sits up, spluttering.

" _Fuck_ ," he pronounces emphatically.  
"You can say that again!" America laughs. His hair is plastered to his head and his grey t-shirt clings to his torso (Germany pretends not to notice this development). He shakes his head like a wet dog, spraying water in all directions. Germany struggles into a standing position, then he holds out a hand to help America up.  
"What a gentleman."  
"I'm honestly delightful, aren't I?" America snorts at this. Germany does his best to look offended.  
"When you're not trying to drown me, you're an absolute dream." Still holding hands, they clamber out of the water. A few businesspeople stop to stare at them, giggling.  
"Nothing to see here!" Germany shouts in broken French, which only makes the assembled audience laugh more. America lets go of his hand as they begin the walk of shame back to work. With uncharacteristic confidence, Germany grips his hand again tightly and moves a little closer.

"Where are we going?"  
"To find some towels… and somewhere private."


End file.
